


Inked Petals

by Namirart



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Roses and needles AU, Thorin is shy, Thranduil is super cool and fancy, and bilbo is shy too, really don't be scared, this is too fluffy for my own good
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 19:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3301004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Namirart/pseuds/Namirart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo, a magnificent tattoo artist, blamed the day a flower shop was opened right across the street for it attracted foolish girls looking for discrete roses and daisies tattooed on their ankle. </p><p>Perhaps he began to like it the moment he saw the florist with black and long hair that ran it with passion. His name was Thorin.</p><p>Roses and Needles AU in which:<br/>-Bilbo is a great artist but just CAN'T handle plants and flowers.<br/>-Thorin is a softie and even if he looks grumpy he is shy and lovely.<br/>But then:<br/>Thorin decided to start a courtship without the tattoo artist even noticing it.<br/>And maybe Ori's cousin just wanted to make it easier for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hibiscus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilywen](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Ilywen).
  * Inspired by [Needles and Roses AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/96617) by Radiorcrist. 



> I'm not a native english-speaker and I'm only translating my own work. So I'm sorry and if you notice any mistakes, feel free to notice me. I'm glad to learn more about this beautiful language that English is.

He looked for the umpteenth time the woman in front of him, mouth agape. She was really beautiful with the long curled red hair in a mess. Her eyes, hazel, expected some answer from him.

 

"Really?" he asked, incredulously.

 

"Yes, you're the only one I can trust to design and tattoo this project. My cousin has the whole body inked by you and your work quality is magnificent." She repeated, maybe for the third time. "As well... I'm paying you the double that I was gonna pay my local tattooist. His work is kind of awful and you can see that his sketch is rubbish. So I will ask you to fix this and make one of your wonders"

 

Her chatter continued for what seemed like hours to him. What the hell was she talking about? And when the hell he offered Ori to tattoo his cousin? WHY this nonsense had happened? Everyone knew that women are fond of flowers and sweet tattoos, colorful and psychedelic shapes.

 

It was not his style despite his forearms being kind of a roses garden. 

 

Specially looking the sketch he had in hands. The woman -or concretely her tattooist- had sketched some kind of weird outline showing a weird orange flower with lots of filigree around, with a name woven into them. When he asked about it, he found out it was an Hibiscus.

 

"I'll do what I can" he assured.

 

He sighed and said goodbye to the woman whom name he didn't even remembered. He was surprised that a woman with her arms covered with dragons and strange symbols were entrusting a commissioned design of a flower.

 

"I need this tattoo at latest within two weeks" added before closing the glass door and ringing the bamboo mobile pipe that was there.

 

He looked over his desolate local. The first room, which let the sun in, was not too big though it had a great window on one wall. There were two sofas, a few showcases with piercings and tattoo samples printed on paper, and behind the bar there was the door. It was white translucent glass door that led to the study itself. The walls were decorated with paint and various designs that could boast of having made him personally. In the back room, where he had placed the study, had his medical chair, tattoo equipment and walls lined with posters of various genres and music groups other than gifts of some customers.

 

He sat in the couch in the shop, watching the sketch. He could read the name intertwining filigree and regretted not having investigated the exact letters that formed it. Apparently the written said "Miél" with a tick in the E. Or maybe it was part of the filigree. He should had asked it before. 

 

He had no plants in his local. Not one. And, except for his forearms, none of his tattoos showed the slightest sign of flowers or leaves. Reluctantly recalled that plant that a customer once gave him. It lasted three weeks alive. Not a single day more. Before being dried and useful to fire a fireplace.

 

"How the hell do you draw an Hibiscus" he demanded, though no one was listening.

 

When he raised his gaze while losing himself in infinite, realised the florist across the street. He had never paid much attention because he wasn’t interested in flowers. And it would be a blatant lie to say that when he had no customers (or he wasn’t tattooing) he would sit in the counter and stare the flower shop, waiting for its owner to show up, deliver some plants or water them. No. It had never happened most of mornings when, early, he watched the sweat that caused the sun in the florist tanned skin. Of course he had never fantasized in the least with these shapely muscles or the long black hair that he wore tied in a ponytail. Never ever. 

 

He was there, under the sun of May, sweating slightly, with his sleeves rolled up the greatest possible. The tattoo artist certainly wasn’t noticing the way his muscles tighten. Carrying a pot and putting it outside under the sun. On his face there was that kind of a small, soft smile he always had when he worked with flowers.

 

The florist was a man who…

Nothing.

A man who nothing.

 

He sighed, resigned himself and left the store, leaving the sign that said: “I’ll be back in 5 minutes”. The sketch in his hand and some unknown value in his heart. He hadn’t even thought about what was he doing when he was already at the other side of the street. The florist hadn’t noticed the presence of the tattooist until it was late, since Bilbo unconsciously had benefited the mental absence of his neighbor to admire it closer. At the time he had turned he almost split the entire content of the shower he was holding.

 

“Bilbo!” he exclaimed, surprised with a wide smile that almost couldn’t fit in his face. “Glad to see you this side of the street. Not much work to do?” asked while placing the pots well, clearly uncomfortable with the presence of the young one.

 

“Oh, the contrary. Too much work.” calmly replied, crossing his arms as he watched him working. “Are you busy?” asked nervous. After so many years he still had hard to ask for favours if they could be dismissed.

 

Thorin took the sketch Bilbo held.

 

“Not much” murmured, focused on what laid ahead. After a while that took too long on the tattooist perception, he said something. “This is rubbish. What’s this flower supposed to be? I’d say a fire lily but…”

 

“It’s a Hibiscus” corrected Bilbo, embarrassed.

 

“You didn’t draw this.” said Thorin, with half smile on his face, incredulous that the artist working ten yards from him could have deteriorated its own work so dramatically in such a short time.

 

Bilbo couldn’t stand it. His blush was evident and the laughter grew naturally from his lips, sweet and fresh. He was surprised. Surprised of the florist. Perhaps, he thought, Thorin appreciated his work.

 

“Nope, I haven’t drawn this. It’s the project of a client. Ori’s cousin” explained himself “The tattoo artist in her neighborhood designed it. I’ve been asked to fix it but…”

 

“Are you designing a floral tattoo for Mirabeth?” exclaimed in surprise. Bilbo nodded. “I find it strange. You’ve seen her arms. Her tattoos are nothing like feminine” added. “Come here, I think I can help you”

 

Thorin made Bilbo follow him inside the shop.

 

Bilbo thanked it with a friendly smile, he appreciated the good intentions of his neighbor.

 

“I know you aren’t fond of flowers” said Thorin, relaxed. He went to a shelf and took a plastic flower that gave Bilbo “I don’t usually sell Hibiscus, not in May, but people have some kind of obsession with them so I have always this imitation nearby.”

 

“May I ask you what that means” tried to lengthen the time of the conversation.

 

Thorin smiled and nodded, approached and took the flower with his hands, touching the delicate plastic petals.

 

“The Hibiscus grow in tropical areas such as Hawaii and often have a sense of delicate beauty. They come in many colors, orange expresses warmth and desire to stay close to someone or something. You  know that surfers usually have them drawn on their tables.” he said, kindly, touching the hand of Bilbo in the process of returning the sketch. “I hope to see it finished, Bilbo. I know you’d strive more than you usually do” assured.

 

“Why more than usual?” asked, surprised.

 

“Well, if Mirabeth commissioned a tattoo starring an Orange Hibiscus, she should be thinking on giving it to Miél as a gift…” cleared, touching the name in the paper. Bilbo noded.

 

“Someday you ought to tell me how do you do to know everyone’s lives.”

 

Maybe he wanted to continue talking to the florist, but he couldn’t. Across the street in his own studio there was a customer waiting. Bilbo quickly dismissed a “thank you” hardly breathing and ran to his shop, leaving a smiling and distracted florist touching his own hand with a sigh.

 

He barely listened to the customer, absorbed on his own thoughts to be able to take that man from his mind. He hated going to his shop because of that. Never was gonna admit it.

 

From the day the florist settled there, he had been unable to work fine. People had the absurd habit of linking flowers with tattoos and appeared at his studio looking for discrete flowering designs. He hadn’t become a tattooist to draw roses and daisies on the ankles of teenagers with parental permission.

 

Actually, more than once, he had asked floral advice to the tall, strongly built man with light beard, fond braids and long hair. Always with apron and muddy gloves, transplanting flowers and offering advice to his clients. Since then, two years ago, he had been aware of all his movements. Often nobody entered the study throughout the morning and he had to fill his mind with something. He was used to draw the man, as his little dirty secret. It wasn’t love, but he perhaps watched him over the account.

 

He shook his head and went back to work, trying to understand the confusing and ethereal desires of the man right in front of him. Apparently he had his design ‘in his mind’. But he was a tattooist not a mind reader. 

 

Thorin, standing under the awning covering the shop from heat, watched the young tattooist as he grew frustrated with the customer who had sought his services. He laughed quietly, almost in a shy whisper, and came back to work. He loved the way the tattooist collected its hair, with a diadem what seemed more of a woman. Copper curls scattered over his ears and a nose perhaps too big for his face, somewhat plump. Thorin though he maybe would fit much better at working with flowers with his delicate appearance. But no, Bilbo’s body, covered in ink, didn’t say the same. Of course not.

 

And Thorin would be lying if he said that he wouldn’t get his body tattooed only to feel those hands running across his skin.


	2. Gardenias

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. Whenever you are going to read and imagine Mirabeth's voice... It sounds exactly like THIS:  
> http://unholyconfessionsinmymind.tumblr.com/post/110503471791/really-for-anyone-who-is-willing-to-read-my

  1. Gardenias.



 

The flamboyant engine sound of the tattooing machine would completely fill the room if it wasn’t for the fact that Bilbo disliked working in silence. Some certainly old speakers connected to his computer arose the pleasant sound of the Beatles, playing “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”. Bilbo held his design on a lectern as he traced in a perfect and careful way the strokes on the pale skin his customer had. She had her torso leaned on the medical chair and her orange hair was tied in a high bun. Bilbo didn’t even care about the girl being shirtless.

 

The neck is one of the most sensitive areas of the human body, specially about pain. The tattoo should be painful. He was starting to color the Hibiscus, right up her spine. Its owner should be screaming for the great pain it must have been inflicting to her, with her eyes probably closed with tears springing… But she just kept talking:

 

“And that’s when I heard the explosion: BAM. And I swear that Miél didn’t want to turn around but I did, indeed. And what I saw...Well. I think I’d never imagined that someone could have soooo many cream covering him like some American comedy. But there he was: Ori, covered in cake, from head to toe. And Fíli’s birthday party completely ruined. Oh, well, it would have been ruined if it weren’t for he and his brother Kíli loving the idea of playing around fighting with cream and chocolate instead of eating it. Anyone who saw them without actually knowing’em, would think that they were nine-years-old-kiddos instead of well behaved teenagers. But well, then Miél actually turned around and saw the disaster Dwalin made. I swear  I thought she was gonna kill him but instead she started laughing and high-fived him because…”

 

Bilbo listened, kind of absent, while he set the first layer of orange to hibiscus. The story was absurd. It started with Mirabeth explaining how she had met Miél and had ended with his own friend, Ori, covered in cake on a sixteen year-old boy birthday party. He couldn’t help but ask:

 

“Why did Dwalin made the cake explode?” Bilbo didn’t even know who Dwalin was.

 

“But he had no idea that it was going to explode! He just set fireworks to the cake for making Fíli an awesome present but something went wrong with gunpowder and all…”

 

Bilbo would be lying if he said he was actually paying attention. His blue gloves made the contrast with pale skin beneath his fingers and the blood running to the handkerchief. It was coherent in every detail, in each of the filigree with whose he had filled the Hibiscus under his fingers. He earned a pain scream from the girl for making too much pressure on a distraction she actually caused.

 

“Pardon! I was surprised by something you said and I’ve failed the needle. Keep the calm, it won’t leave marks, it was a shadow on the Hibiscus” he apologized in hurry, wiping the blood drop he had caused. “What were you saying?”

Mirabeth turned her head, with a mischievous smile, and stopped the tattoo from continuing his work.

 

“I was saying that Thorin, Dwalin’s best friend, was who actually brought the Azahar to make the cake. Well, he brought it to Miél, not me, I can not even cook a single cookie. Not a single sweet.” she repeated “And I ASSURE you that Thorin was like a big mass of stone, with those huge arms, standing in front of the door with a bouquet of Azahar. It didn’t even match with him! But Miél didn’t care about that, in fact, she invited him. That’s how I met him. I had NO IDEA that Ori’s crush could have a sexy best friend like him. Of course, I don’t look forward it, because his thing is not my thing, but I swear to you… No, really. I SWEAR A LOT, that that was the weirdest day of my entire life.”

 

Bilbo continued his work in silence while the Beatles kept singing background, bringing some particular view of life while Ori’s cousin tireless voice didn’t stop talking. He preferred Mirabeth endless talking over screaming and crying people. It was easier this way. Much more.

 

The smell of ink and music made that little art corner ran out to nobody’s gaze.

[...]

When he finished the job he sealed the tattoo with a plastic but didn’t turn of the music. He offered the relevant information:

 

“Remember to moisturize every two hours, don’t expose to sun until it’s cured and first days use a plastic wrap, kitchen film, so the ink doesn’t become damaged and your tattoo isn’t infected” said, quietly, taking off his gloves and throwing away the used needle.

 

She laughed softly.

 

“Thank you very much”, she said as she payed the tattooist.

Bilbo got his money and kept it while the girl walked out the door and wang his bamboo mobile. What he didn’t imagine was her head appearing again, at the door, and shouting kind of an invitation.

 

“Tell me” asked Bilbo.

 

“You’re invited to the party! Saturday evening, about six. Ask Thorin to take you!”

 

And she was gone. Just like that damned Lucy in the Beatles’ song.

 

“Why would I ask Thorin instead of Ori if he’s her cousin?” wondered, confused.

 

Standing along the parlor, he couldn’t keep desperation, confusion and that stupid warm feeling increasing inside his chest. He recalled Ori was travelling and he had not the right -or the number- to call him and ask how he could go to his cousin party. Mirabeth hadn’t even told him where the party would be set. At her home? At Miél’s? At Ori’s? Bilbo didn’t know what to do. First of all, why the hell was he invited along to the party? and what was the party celebration? 

Sighing he slumped into the couch and let the floral design slide his hand. His gaze travelled to find young Mirabeth bothering Thorin, who smiled pleasantly and didn’t seem at all embarrassed by her vitality.

He closed his eyes, seeking for sleep until the mobile sounded again.

[...]

When it actually sounded, Bilbo opened his eyes, alert and ready to face whatever potential customer or thief who venture into his domains. He didn’t sighed in relief when noticed it was Thorin, the florist. Of course not.

He cleaned his mouth’s corner with a careless gesture and stood up quickly, making his suspenders bother him greatly. He tried to smile but he wasn’t able. He settled his hair and only then he spoke. Or tried to because the man in front of him smiled like he was apologizing and spoke first:

“I can come another time if I disturb” offered.

Bilbo lacked time to deny his offer.

“No!” he shouted. He paused for a moment and regained his breath. “I mean, you aren’t bothering.”

Thorin grinned and pointed to the clock with his gaze.

“I was surprised for you not having any breakfast today. Thought it could have happened something” he explained himself, indifferent to the idea that the tattooist could have faced any misfortune.

Bilbo maybe flushed. Maybe. Because surely the heat was affecting him. Yes. The heat. Of course. Nothing to do with the man in front of him, kind of sweating and worrying about him. Nothing to do.

“Er… I…” he began.

He didn’t know what to say, so pointed the obvious:

“I’ve fallen asleep”

Florist’s laughter was severe.

“I already noticed it myself.”

This time Bilbo really flushed.

“Did you want something?” he asked, avoiding the whole sleeping-in-the-couch-issue.

Thorin brought his bravery to his skin and exposed.

“I wanted to invite you over to have some breakfast as you didn’t had yours on your own” asked, nervous. He tried to hide it, without success. He couldn’t believe he was acting like a teenager. “I mean… Only if you agree.”

Bilbo had to think about it for a long time. Or maybe not. He actually accepted immediately. Because he really wanted to spend some time with the mysterious man full of flowers, the man working all day long in the creation of nature, the one who cared so much for those helpless and fragile beings.

Yes, agreed directly. No thinking involved.

[...]

Seated at a nearby cafe, they gazed upon each other when he thought the other didn’t. They ordered coffee and a croissant. Nothing so fancy. The conversation didn’t flow, shy and reserved. When it finally came out, it was about Bilbo’s forearms.

“Knowing your story with plants I’m surprised that you had roses all over your forearms” said Thorin.

Bilbo looked up from the table and faced him, relaxed. Bilbo was cheeky if he wanted to, it was simply having some trouble meeting this man, incredible man.

“My mother was passionate about botany. She loved taking care of her garden. She had Gardenias, and violets, daisies, petunias, and she even had Ivy scaling her wall. I can’t remember all the names of the flowers she cared of.”started, quietly”But most proud she was of her roses. She had a garden full of roses. Outside pots. Everywhere you’d find roses. Red, yellow and even white. I got my forearms tattooed with roses when she…”

Bilbo sobbed a little, unable to control it. He lowered his gaze but didn’t cry. He did not by any means.

Without actually thinking about it, Thorin had taken his hands over the table, making him look up. The smile, comforting, found Bilbo and removed any trace of death or pain from his eyes, saving any tear that could leave.

“Easy, Bilbo.” asked.

“When my mother was diagnosed Alzheimer” completed. “I tattooed roses when she couldn’t stay close to her garden, when she was at the hospital, for her to have always her garden by her side.”

Thorin felt empathy running down his spine. He had no idea of the tattooist suffering and struggling through a destiny worse than death, to his mother forgetting about everyone she loved. Bilbo seemed broken.

So Thorin changed the subject.

“You said that your mother grew flowers. Did you know what they meant?” asked, matey.

Bilbo shook his head, interested.

“Gardenias are a desire, an innocent love. They represent purity and a secret crush, an unspeakable love. Gardenias are entertained when a confession can not be voiced.” started with patience. “Petunias, you said?” Bilbo nodded. “Petunias represent someone whose presence can comfort you and heal you. Violets have many meanings and I doubt you know what variety had your mother, but in general they hold a sense of a calm and patient mind. Daisies represent purity. So your mother had a beautiful garden, as I can say. That combination is full of love and they aren’t flowers usually mixed together.” he complied.

Bilbo smiled in response.

“She still has her garden. Father’s watching after it. But he can’t take care of plants, he’s like me. We hope she recovers soon so she can come back to it..” admitted again.

Thorin didn’t judge. Simply listened.

And then he spoke. And he spoke. And he didn’t stop talking until the time had advanced dangerously. Botany was his passion and Bilbo was drown in methods of plants’ cultivation.

To be honest?

He didn’t care.

[...]

Returning to their stores, quietly, Thorin held Bilbo for a moment.

“One moment” he asked, entering his own shop and then coming out with a pot of a beautiful white flower with multiple petals, hanging from some kind of shrub.

He gave it to the tattoo artist and he didn’t understand anything. Or maybe… No. He wasn’t. Waited, with a raised eyebrow, blatantly staring at the florist before him.

“And this is supposed to be…?” asked.

“A Bush, Bilbo. With white flowers. Just don’t let in the sun too long, this plant isn’t fond of it. Water it regularly.” offered advice. 

Bilbo, with the flowerpot in his arms, stood static. He had not idea of even how to hold it. The flowers were beautiful although he remembered seeing them somewhere else but couldn’t recall.

“And you give me because…?”

Thorin laughed and pushed him to his tattoo parlor.

“When your mother recovers, she’ll need some help reviving the garden that your father should have killed by now, if he has your skill with plants.”

Bilbo didn’t answer.

And it didn’t matter.

Thorin said goodbye with his hand as he went to his tattoo shop, with a plant between hands and wondering:

What the hell just happened?

He left it on the counter and stared at it, sitting behind that piece of furniture. He opened the notebook and started sketching that familiar flower that he was now supposed to protect.

If he had paid attention to his own memories, he’d knew they were gardenias.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any mistake you may find, tell me please. I'm a Spanish native-speaker so I might find some struggles translating my own work...


	3. White Camelias.

He dismissed the client with greetings and congratulations on the birth of his baby. He had tattooed on his arm the name and birthday of his newborn, along with it's little hand. It wasn't really Bilbo's thing -babies and all- but he couldn't help but get excited slightly in the sight of the tenderness that the manliest fathers, those who seemed rude and strong, felt towards their offspring. 

Just for a moment he felt sad. He couldn't have a child ever. 

Maybe he'd adopt someday.

But his? No. 

There wasn't too much to do about it. He sentenced his own life the day he took his way out of the closet, had chosen to become a tattoo artist and left university. All the same day in a row. Hours before his mother's diagnosis. He didn't know for sure it was a warm or cold day.

Sighing he picked up his bag, with several personal effects, and left the store. He closed the blinds and locked them to prevent vandalism at night. He got his usual internal fight about going to the florist or not. It was Saturday. His client, Mirabeth -Ori's cousin-, had invited him to her party. He was dressed as usual, a shirt -green was that day-, straps up his pants and the only thing that set him apart from hotter days was the fine wool jacket.

It took courage to him and went into the shop right in front of his study. The smell of flowers invaded him immediately. At the counter, Thorin finished selling the most beautiful bouquet he had ever seen to an elderly gentleman who paid with his best smile of happiness.

"See you next week, Mr Mahal"- Thorin dismissed, welcoming the man with a smile.

When the door closed he was alone with Bilbo. Thorin was humming a song, softly, as he removed his gloves and apron.

"Mr Aule Mahal buys every week a different bouquet to his lady Yavanna" explained quietly. He closed the register box and lead to the backroom. He kept on talking, almost shouting. "What do I owe the honor, Bilbo Baggins?" asked. Bilbo heard the sound of water and assumed the man was washing hands.

Bilbo brooded and thought of leaving that instant. Running away and forgetting about the party. But there was something inside him, something that hadn't exist since long ago, that told him that he wanted to know Miél and the famous Dwalin, even if he didn't know if he'd be at the party.

"Bilbo Baggins. Since when you are a nosy?" he asked himself, scolding.

"Mirabeth's party. She ordered me to go and the only way is asking you, she said." he answered in a sight. His gaze wandered among the flowers, freshly watered to spend their quiet night.

"Oh! That's right! The party!" Thorin claimed, almost seeming that he had forgot about it. "Let me change this clothes and we'll be on our way" added.

Bilbo wondered if the man with strong muscles would feel as intimidated as he was. Wondered if perhaps he had those nerves threatening to make him fall in his presence. He refused the thought. It wasn't possible and he knew it.

When Thorin finally appeared, Bilbo had to drown a groan of exclamation. The man standing in front of him had loosened his hair and changed his uniform to a black short-sleeved shirt, leather jacket and jeans. Although the boots were the same. His concern about not being correctly dressed disappeared.

"Shall we go?" asked Thorin.

Bilbo nodded. He stood while the man led to one of the shelves, selected a small shrub with several white flowers, carried him in her arms and then headed for the door, asking him to follow.

[...]

Thorin didn’t had a very expensive car. He didn’t even had a car. It was a Picap, a kind of truck with a back pool uncovered, probably used for transporting flowers. In the seats there were Thorin, Bilbo, that plant and the silence. This last one had to go early because when the young tattooist got nervous, his mouth couldn’t shut up.

“Are they plastic” asked, curious.

“No, why would they be?” answered Thorin, not leaving his eyes from the road.

“They don’t smell”

Thorin allowed himself a soft laugh, admiring the young innocence of his neighbor, who seemed really interested on his work.

“Camellias lack fragrance. Mirabeth asked me for a shrub and I don’t know why.” he explained, patiently.

Silence wanted to settle and street lights lighted themselves as dusk fell over them. The sky was clear anyway. Bilbo did some more research.

“Do camellias have a meaning?”

Thorin turned in one of the streets, they had left city center and were driving on suburbs, where houses were larger and had garden instead of being tall buildings. The van did some loud noise that made Bilbo ask himself it Thorin had listened to it. Maybe it was broken?

“Camellias say ‘I will always love you’. White, innocently; red, with admiration; pink with longing.” He recited.

Bilbo wished Thorin to give him some Camellias. But rebuked his thought.

What the hell? He barely knew that man, he could not think desire to make him fell for him and bring him flowers. He didn’t want that. Why should he wish to be gifted with flowers? He didn’t even liked them.

“So she will give them to Miél”, adventured “For love and all”

Thorin shook his head in disbelief at the misfortune of the tattooist. He seemed lost, nervous, confused. Alone by himself. But it didn’t matter. Not a single bit. He pushed away any inappropriate thought. 

He parked and with it’s usual parsimony took the Camellias. Bilbo did the same.

[...]

That house was bright and had a huge garden. Not so huge if he compared it to his mother’s, but great if he thought of his own flat. There were not many flowers, and wasn’t even fenced so anyone could smash inside it.

Rang the bell, the door was opened by a woman Bilbo didn’t know at all. She was tall, almost as Thorin was, and all her hair was pulled back very loosely. Several braids adorned her head and her eyes were as blue as the sky itself. She was dressed in a very simple set, matching her eyes, a blue skirt of several layers of gauze and a shirt. Bilbo could not see any tattoo on her skin and regretted it, for it was so smooth to his gaze that he found himself fantasizing about her, naked, in his studio, ready to be marked forever.

“Nice afternoon, Thorin! Isn’t it early?” asked her.

Her voice was so sweet Bilbo reaffirmed his desire about tattooing her. Lots of fairies and colors along her skin would be so appropriate. His longing look earned a great laugh from Mirabeth, appearing behind the woman.

“You should save that look for Thorin whenever he lets you tattoo him.” exclaimed, cheerfully, talking the pot of his arms. “Thanks for the Camellias!” added, as Bilbo remember her from less than a week ago. “And please, stop looking my girl like that or may I murder you, tattooist?” ended, while she came back to the place she had came from.

The mere scene had led to a blush on both, Bilbo’s and Thorin’s cheeks. Neither of them said anything, just looked at each other.

“Ignore her. You must be Bilbo, may I be wrong?” she greeted while guiding them to living room. “Ori has talked a lot about you, he appears every week with a new tattoo made by you. Still don’t know how many skin he has left.”

“Every month.” Bilbo corrected.

“...Sorry?”

“He tattoos himself every month. I doubt he could stand the pain of a weekly tattoo”

Suddenly his shyness came to screen, he regretted inquiring in her conversation as she was their host. 

“Yeah, sorry. Time passes just too quick.” She apologized “Name’s Miél, by the way. You can sit wherever you want.” she offered. 

Of the three of them only him sit down on some armchair where nobody else could sit near him. Miél did the same as Thorin just banished out of sight. 

“I don’t know why Mirabeth is throwing this party but I honestly don’t care. It is always fine having people here, home. Dwalin should arrive any moment.” she chatted.

Bilbo, intimidated, didn’t know what to say.

“So tell me, tattooist. My skin looks nice?”

And the lack of sarcasm made Bilbo start talking. Who knows how, but he continued to do so until several long minutes later when the sun had begun to fall and the bell ringed again. 

Talking about his work and passion strengthened his confidence as it could never do with anyone in any other areas. Miél enjoyed and found delight in hearing his words, feeling almost as if her could let him tattoo her just so listen his kind passion. Almost. If only she could overcome the pain, that is. 

[...]  
“Have I brought my most beautiful camellias for you to throw them on the food?” asked Thorin, patiently. 

Before him, Mirabeth moved lightly amongst pots and pans and even a baking tray. She had torn one of the flowers and was currently reducing it to some kind of sauce that he didn’t know and hadn’t ever saw or tasted. 

“You didn’t have to bring the most beautiful, Thorin” she scolded.

“And you could have told me so” replied him.

“So you could ruin the fun” complained Mirabeth, with a light hearted laugh. 

The cook kept on going with more euphoria that Thorin had ever seen a person have. The girl was currently stirring soup, turning the meat and, she herself alone (no help), beginning to shape what would be the dinner. 

Thorin fidgeted uncomfortable, sitting in one of the chairs the kitchen had, watching the young woman with delicate appearance. 

“What was that you said earlier, Mirabeth?” he finally asked.

“Excuse me?” she said innocently.

“You know what I’m talking about. It was very inappropriate. Baggins and I are business neighbors, nothing more” he exposed, politely.

Mirabeth laughed, soundly. Too much loud for the man’s taste.

“You’ll thank me, Thorin. Wait and see.”

[...]

The sound of glass against the knife demanded the attention of all the presents. The table, really long, had unknown faces for Bilbo, whereas Thorin knew everyone. On the head was Miél, by Mirabeth’s side, then there were Dwalin, Balin and his older brother, a redheaded man named Glóin with his wife, Dina, both older than the rest of them (except for Balin, that is). There also were the three siblings, Ori (who Bilbo knew), Nori and Dori, although Ori was not present (enrolled in a work journey, God knows where he was). A chair, between Thorin and Dwalin, was empty. 

“I wanted to thank you all for coming and I’d like to take this opportunity to…” Mirabeth began.

She was interrupted by the doorbell. She quickly turned her steps towards it. 

Soon, entered the dining room the most powerful presence that Bilbo had ever witnessed. 

And he knew her.

Her hair was black, curly and very long. It wasn’t pulled or tied in any possible way. She wasn’t old, but neither was young. Probably she’d be around her thirties. He didn’t know her exact age, but could recognise each of the tattoos that filled her strong arms. She was a very strong woman and could easily scare anyone, but when she spoke, her voice broke the silence with her full hearted apologise.

“Fíli and Kíli decided they wanted to escape to a party that I deemed not suitable for them, so I had to bring order to the situation. I’m sorry for being late.”

Everyone greeted her with cheers and laugh, but the only one who got up was Thorin, allowing her to sit by his side. He received her with a hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek, strange thing for a man. 

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. He knew Dís, a regular customer, was married, but… with Thorin? He had never heard of the florist with a wife and children. 

“Bilbo, my Dear!” said her voice. She didn’t mind moving Thorin in order to get up again and shake her arms around the young tattooist. “What, for heaven's sake, are you doing here?” asked with the wider grin he had seen that evening. 

“He’s my new favourite tattoo artist” Mirabeth explained, “and he is here accompanying Thorin” she added, mischievous. 

Dwalin tried not to laugh as he saw his friend turning red.

“No… I… Bilbo and I… we don’t…” 

But Dís didn’t let him finish.

“Are you dating my favorite tattooist and you haven’t said anything to me?” she scolded him. Thorin shook his head, almost frightened. 

Finally, they could not take it anymore and almost everyone burst into loud laughter. Dís sat in her place and the food was served while Bilbo spoke.

“I’m not dating anyone, actually. Mirabeth invited me to this party and I supposed I should come, having tattooed her neck and… I don’t know.” he clarified.  
“That’s a shame! My brother would make a great couple with you. Don’t let him intimidate you, behind all the flowers and angry faces hs has a great heart” she merely claimed.

Bilbo sat as a fresh breath of air filled his heart: They were brothers, not a couple. And he really didn’t know why he felt so relieved to learn that fact. 

[...]

“Now, everyone pay attention to me!” Mirabeth called again, interrupting dinner. They all watched expectantly. “As you may notice, you are eating Camellias, courtesy of our dear Thorin Durinson” she began, then she turned to her partner: “Camellias don’t smell like anything, just like you, because I don’t want any particular smell to remind me of you. I want, instead, to be reminded of you by every single smell I can find at every corner of this universe. I want to remember you in every moment I may live, I want you to be my happiness and my sadness. Just like Camellias, growing slowly and never whose leaves never fall. It’s been ten years since all of this began. Camellias say ‘I’ll love you forever’ with innocence, passion and tenderness. And that’s what I want to tell you, Miél. That I’ll love you forever.” she stopped for a moment, just before she engaged in a fight with her pants to get a box. She opened it: “Will you marry me? I know I’m not the best choice, I’m unbearable, I can’t shut the hell up and I can’t bake a cake with my life, I also enjoy the loudest music there is. But I’d be the happiest woman on earth if you’d say yes, because the only thing I’ve had for certain in all my life is that I love you and I want to be with you”.

Bilbo sighed, dreamy. He’d give anything for a relationship like theirs. Pure as love. 

They all stood, expectantly. Bilbo felt like an intruder. He knew Mirabeth, and Dís. He knew Thorin, but he did know very little about him, brief conversations. He wanted to know it all, in depth, discover all his secrets, visit his backstage and help him carry those flower pots. He wanted to smell his hair and touch him and hug him. He shook his head, paying attention to the scene before him, and forgetting his fantasies for a while. 

“Yes.”

And Bilbo, although being all alone, was happy.

Around them, bottles of champagne were opened, the laughter exploded and the conversation flowed again. Everything was so familiar, so welcoming, that he wished to stay there forever. 

He wanted a part on it.

Because in a little time, everyone had made themselves home in his little heart.

[...]

Night fell and the table was collected. Sitting in the garden, the warm summer night seeped into his bones and sensations. Thorin felt free, surrounded by people who loved with all his heart. Bilbo was still a stranger despite Dís efforts on achieve otherwise. 

It didn’t matter.

Dís was a formidable woman.

“Taking care of two teenagers all by yourself is hard” Bilbo reminded her, as she had expressed the issue she was overcoming then. 

“I just… I miss Víli too much.” she admitted, watching the dark sky full of stars.

“I know you do, my darling” he consoled, stroking her arm gently. Just over the tattoo that was dedicated to her husband. The only ink piece with which she had been crying. Not because of the pain. Not in the slightest. More because of… Sorrow. Mourning. Horror. Not a single trace of pain. 

Thorin wasn’t softened, seeing them like that.

Not at all.

Whoever said that Thorin felt his heart right itself and just wanted to capture that image in his head forever (Bilbo with a sad but somehow cheerful smile, comforting his younger sister -somewhat drunk- under the starlight)... well, he was lying.

Or maybe not.

Probably not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting sooner, I've been ill and in the hospital, so I couldn't do it as I had it written in my computer. I could write a few oneshots with my tablet, and they are uploaded, but not this fic. Now I'm updating regularly, I hope.


End file.
